


Fault in his stars

by Builder



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Comforting Penelope, Episode 13x01, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Simmons just stands there, Spencer Reid Whump, Vomiting, actually PTSS, adaptation/missing moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 15:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12213360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: As soon as he’s managed to shut the door, Spencer leans against the smooth dark wood.  He almost doubles over and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, daring his vision to clear and the ache in his sinuses to reduce.  “Come on, come on, come on,” he whispers to himself.  Shock and stress and PTSS be damned.  All he wants to do is work, but his body’s making it exceedingly difficult.______________________________________________________________________________________My interpretation of what should've happened when Spencer pushed Garcia and Simmons out of Rossi's office in 13x01.





	Fault in his stars

**Author's Note:**

> So, I’m not usually a big fan of writing season and episode-canon Criminal Minds fics, especially for the later seasons, but this whump opportunity from last night’s Season 13 premiere was too good to pass up. This is a re-imagining of the scene where Spencer shoves Garcia and Simmons out of Rossi’s office so he can work on figuring out Emily and Hotch’s text messages (the one where he throws the book), but with some lovely angst and emeto, ‘cause that’s what I do.

 

 

“Out.  Get out.”  Spencer pushes Garcia’s shoulder, trying not to let the efficiency of his movement turn to shaky anger.  “I’m really sorry.”  He opens his lanky wingspan and ushers her and Simmons out of the office.  “Just, please, get out.” 

 

Garcia’s pulling the open-mouthed face of concern she seems to have been perpetually flashing at him over the past few months.  Simmons is similarly confused, but Spencer doesn’t have time to explain.  He’s just relieved they’ve left the belligerence to him and refrained from asking questions.

 

As soon as he’s managed to shut the door, Spencer leans against the smooth dark wood.  He almost doubles over and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, daring his vision to clear and the ache in his sinuses to reduce.  “Come on, come on, come on,” he whispers to himself.  Shock and stress and PTSS be damned.  All he wants to do is work, but his body’s making it exceedingly difficult.

 

Spencer shoves off the door and paces across the office, squinting at the blurred handwriting on the white board.  The strange acronym in Emily’s text message.  B-CAP.  It means something.  It’s familiar in the dusty nostalgic way of a childhood bike path or a long lost favorite book.  He’s seen it before.  He knows what it means.  The pressure of what feels like a wedge of dry splintered wood driving between his eyes is just keeping him from accessing that cobwebbed area of his brain.  And that in turn drives up the horrible sensation of a constricting band around his chest and a wash of acid in his eyes.

 

“Fuck,” Spencer mutters.  He takes a position about 8 inches back from the white board.  “Come on.  B-CAP.”  The prospect of hitting his forehead against the shiny white surface is tempting.  He knows he knows it.  He’s just lacking that flick of the light switch, the illuminating moment of realization that will allow him to connect the dots. 

 

It would help if he had Derek.  Bouncing ideas off him was always a good starting block.  Rossi or JJ or Emily, any of them would be a comfort, a lifeline.  But they’re all in crisis.  Spencer’s alone.  And Emily’s life currently depends on the answer to this puzzle.  There’s no time to waste.  No time to wish for things that won’t come to fruition. 

 

“B-CAP.”  Spencer approaches the bookcase and unloads an armful of whatever he can carry.  He dumps them on the conference table and hurriedly glances over the titles while he forces his brain into action while forcibly ignoring the throb in his head that’s beginning to show as faint nausea.

 

B-CAP.  It’s an abbreviation.  An acronym.  A code. 

 

What does it sound like? 

 

A celebrity nickname. 

 

A-Rod. 

 

K-Fed. 

 

A delivery service. 

 

FedEx. 

 

USPS. 

 

A government agency.  

 

TSA. 

 

BAU. 

 

Emily’s dying. 

 

Emily’s dying, and it’s his fault.  He can’t think.  He feels like he’s on drugs.  Under this stress, his forgetfulness feels as bad as his mother’s dementia, as bad as it was when he was on drugs in Mexico. Spencer swipes his eye again.  He’s tripping.  Or he wishes he was; the calming wash of dilaudid running through his veins would be much more welcome than this…

 

Spencer lets rage seep from his chest into his limbs.  The opulently unhelpful book under his trembling hand is offensive, and he hurls it at the office’s huge glass window.  The resulting clunk is jarring to all five senses.  His peripheral vision all but vanishes, and a sudden flare of vertigo sends him stumbling to a trash can beside the desk. 

 

It’s purely coffee, and the acrid sour-bitter taste sends him gagging all over again.  It’s withdrawal; a terrible come-down from adrenaline that feels more like cocaine, PCP, LSD…

 

Then it clicks, mid-retch.  B-CAP.  Spencer spits forcefully into the plastic-lined bin and tries to ignore his body’s protest that it’s not quite done expelling emotion and dark liquid.  He holds the edge of his sleeve over his mouth to bite back the next wet belch as he trips back to the conference table to find the book on drugs he knows he laid eyes on not a moment ago.

 

He’s barely got it open to the right page when there’s hammering on the closed office door.  Unloading his stomach seems to have sped up the pace of his brain enough so he only has to glance at the still-swimming text in order to take it in and confirm his suspicion.

 

“Reid?”  Garcia cracks the door open an inch.  “Are you ok?” 

 

Spencer doesn’t answer.  He launches directly into a garbled explanation of Scratch’s expedition to Honduras and B-CAP’s status as an herb, a mind-altering drug. 

 

“Like Peyote?” Simmons clarifies, appearing in the open doorway behind Garcia.

 

“Yeah, it makes you hallucinate and vomit a lot,” Spencer clarifies.  He drags a fist up to his lips again as the mention of sickness pushes his stomach back into convulsion. 

 

“Hey, hey, ok” Garcia swoops in and rushes to Spencer’s side, scooping up the already-soiled trash can on her way. 

 

“No, I’m fine,” he insists, forcing down the gag and stepping backward and looking down in order to avoid Simmons’s worried gaze.

 

“I don’t think you are.  You’re sick.  And you threw a book,” Garcia says, her voice wavering with what sounds like the verge of tears.

 

“It took me almost 60 minutes to deduce what I should’ve been able to do in 60 seconds,” Spencer croaks.  He lets his shaking hand fall from his face and tucks it behind his back.  “If Emily dies because I’m too slow, I’ll be throwing a lot more than books.”  He has to swallow thickly against rising bile and tears. 

 

Spencer still feels violent, and when Garcia relinquishes the trash can and wraps her arms around him, he has to fight the instinct to push her away.  But when the flat of her warm hand presses into his back, he relaxes for a moment.

 

“It’s gonna be ok,” Garcia intones in his ear. 

 

Spencer takes two deep breaths, and the surge at the back of his throat is too much.  He frees himself from Garcia’s hug to retch again into the bin.  The throbbing in his head’s reached the cadence of a heartbeat, and the floor feels less than substantial beneath his feet. 

 

“Doesn’t really feel like it right now,” Spencer breathes, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

 

Simmons gives a solemn nod, and Garcia snakes her arm around Spencer’s waist again.  “Yeah, I know,” she intones.  “But it will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bring out your prompts! Please!


End file.
